


Clutch

by Rhanon_Brodie (Glass_Jacket)



Category: British Singers RPF, Indie Music RPF, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: AU, Dark, Death, M/M, Murder, Slash, Strangulation, Stream of Consciousness, and the other guy is totally not a good guy, because I kill someone off, did I mention dark?, like dark you guys, like he's a murderer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 02:36:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4589829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glass_Jacket/pseuds/Rhanon_Brodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Before it's over, I want you to beg me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clutch

**Author's Note:**

> All recognizable elements herein are the property of their respective owners. The remaining content is mine.
> 
> Heed the warnings, kiddos. It's dark.

I am every man you see walking on the streets at night.

I am the face at the end of the bar, blurred by your drink, and your lack of self preservation.

You see me, and you think I’m pretty, you think I’m beautiful, sullen, mysterious, enchanting, unique, all of the above, or perhaps none of these. It doesn’t matter.

I buy you a drink, and you have your reasons for accepting. Maybe it’s because you’ve been stood up. Maybe it’s because you’re all alone in this world, or like to think you are, and that you could use the company, or perhaps an adventure. A wild ride, something to rid you of the mundane, maybe - and you see that in my face. It might be my eyes, you sigh, or the way I wear a leather jacket. Whatever the case may be, and I suspect it’s because this Monday night is late, and dark, and drenched in cold rain, and you’d rather be anywhere besides your own reality.

You see me as a way out.

You don’t know how right you are.

I buy you another drink, waving away your concern, or your offer to get this round. Relax, I’ve got you covered. I’ll keep you in spirits, and you laugh, and for a moment, you seem like perhaps you’re not like the rest, like maybe your saving grace will be the gleam of mischief in your muddy green eyes, or your charming laugh, or the crooked way you smile at me, hoping I’ll take the hint, and take you back to mine.

I’m not ready for that, not yet, not the way this night is going. Besides, a man of my inclination doesn’t keep a place for meetings like this.

I buy you another drink, and I know it’s doing my work for me, because you’ve offered up your name without me having asked. “Miles,” you slur, a combination of five letters, one syllable, that you’ve dialled a thousand times, but for some reason, the tumblers are a mite sticky this evening, and fail to unlock anything save for your ignorace. I’ve not dropped anything in your drink, that’s not my style. I rely on basic instinct alone. I expect you to be able to give me a bit of sport, and you, in return, expect me to give you a night you won’t soon forget.

You’re greedy. You’re downing your drink and already standing, fixing me with an expectant glance that tells me you think you’re ready for the next step in this tangled waltz. I ask you what the rush is, and your cheeks turn crimson before you cast your eyes downward. You say, “I know a good thing when I see one. And I’m not about to let you go.”

For a moment, a mere moment, I’m second guessing myself, and I wonder what it is about you that has me doing so. Is it because you’ve offered your name up freely? Because you’ve somehow taken the lead, and shown what you want? There is no need to persuade, not an ounce of hesitation, which in this day and age, comes a surprise for strangers. You haven’t even asked my name, and then it hits me. I see the tremor in your hands. I see the way you’re bouncing on your toes, and pleading with me with your eyes: you’ve been looking for something like this (or what you think this is, at least), and now you think you’re finally going to get it. You’ve thrown caution to the wind, you’re not scared, merely anxious, like you’re about to pull your own tooth without novocaine, and you just want to get it over with already.

As you lead me out of the bar and down the lane for a spell, I replay my previous encounters over in my head. They mostly go very much like this, but it usually takes a lot more than three drinks, and a lot more words on my end. I haven’t even touched you, and I wonder what kind of a mission you’re on - one of self-destruction? Is it suicide? What has happened to you that you are so reckless, so unwilling to care about your wellbeing?

“My hands get cold,” I hear myself say, and you turn, pause mid-stride, and give me a funny look, and then watch as I tug my gloves into place.

It’s June, and I realize that in my thought process, you haven’t asked the question as to why I’m putting gloves on as others have before; I’ve merely offered the information up, and that makes you a liability. You’ve thrown a wrench into my process and my plan, and that will never do. My jaw tightens as I stare at my hands, and you murmur, “Okay,” and keep walking, stopping when we get to a narrow alley that is the gaping, black maw of a throat opened in a scream.

The notion thrills me, and my heart begins to race. I feel the familiar surge of arousal twitch in my veins. For a moment, I think about us in a different time, a different place, if perhaps I had my head screwed on straight and didn’t find pleasure in the things I do, and you weren’t so fucking eager. Are we friends? Are we lovers? I find it strange that I long to hear my name whispered by you, and the notion sends me spinning so that I put a hand out, and steady myself on the brick wall that you lean yourself against.

Kissing means very little to me in the grand scenario of things, and it’s not something I normally adhere to, but for once, your mouth doesn’t taste like the gasoline of cheap liquor that lines the verbose pitfalls of others. It’s fragrant with your spark; I can feel the vibration of your energy in your tongue as I wrap mine around it. The moan you heave gets directed below my belt, but I am far from satisfied. 

I want your gasp. 

I want your whimper.

Before it’s over, I want you to beg me.

Very little preparation is needed, and I wonder if perhaps you’d let someone else inside before I sat down at that bar. It doesn’t matter to me; the condom saves me more than it does you, and with the first thrust, I discover that I’m going to have to put a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet. Your eyes are bright with pain, and with thankfulness, leading me to believe that whatever you sought earlier wasn’t enough to quench your thirst. You think you want to inhale me, to guzzle, to swallow up what I’m offering you, and I smile without feeling at the way your breath sounds wheezing from your nose, cutting across the gloved hand clamped on your mouth. I think you have a kink, and I think it’s serendipitous that we’ve crossed paths, at least to a certain degree. When my lips purse and I shush you with an expectant look, you nod, and moan softly, and then suck in a breath when I move my hand down to cup your throat.

I don’t take chances anymore. In the ignorance of my youth, I forwent gloves, liking the feel of flesh and the flutter of fear tight against my skin, and though I’ve never been caught nor been suspect, I’ve been close, and the sterile strangle of steel about my wrists won’t be the end of tmy journey, nor will it be electricity, or a toxic cocktail forced into my veins. When I go, it will be of my own choosing, and perhaps after you’ve flickered out this night, I’ll take my leave permanently. I’m starting to think you are my white whale, Miles, the way you push your windpipe into my grip, the way you grunt at the brick wall butting your shoulders, and no doubt scraping your spine. I have finesse in many things, but fucking is not one of them, though none have ever uttered a disappointed sound.

In this moment, you love what I do to you, and I am the only person you will ever love again, like this, or any other way. That always sends me reeling, being last, being final, being the epitome: I am the standard, I am your climax and your downfall, no one else will ever come after, and no one before has ever loved you the way I do. My fingers flex and your pupils expand, and you suck in a quick breath, fingers clawing the sleeves of my jacket.

You wheeze again, and I feel the way your throat moves as you struggle to swallow a sound. I fix my gaze on the brick for a moment, concentrating on heat and timing, the way you clench, and the way I do, and I drive us both mad with the way it goes round, pound, pulse, squeeze, pull, and around again before your heartbeat is threading and I frown at not being able to feel it fully in my palm. I thrust mercilessly, and you have never enjoyed being gutted so thoroughly; this desecration of your body is sending you spinning to new heights, dragging at your heels, a blackness that I know creeps in the back of your mind like it does the edges of your vision, and perhaps it whispers very gently that something about this isn’t quite right.

I am in danger of breaking into a sweat; your body is an inferno and I feel myself burning up. I can’t risk leaving more than I have to, and so I ask you to tell me what it is I have to do to get you to come. Everyone else wants a tweak to the nipple, a bite to the ear, for me to call them a whore, to call them dirty, or merely to fuck them harder, but you - you lash out with your own blade of a tongue and rasp a request that makes me back off, and pause, and stare at you with wide eyes.

No one has ever asked for my name before this, and now I am certain that though there will be others after this night - countless others, for this is how I am created - I will never love anyone quite the way I love you in this moment.

“Alex,” I mutter, sneering, and pressing my fingers to your jaw. “My name is Alex.”

You sigh my name freely, and bit your lip to the point that there is blood.

My hand slips to your throat and again you nod and work your hips fast against mine. It seems a shame to end it like this, after how far we’ve come, but I can’t let you walk away with your name on my lips and my game lingering on your body, trailing pieces of a puzzle I’m sure Scotland Yard would love to put together.

I squeeze, and I do it hard, and quick, and you seem to like the rush until you thrash, and your eyes bulge with the sudden, shocking realization that this has been my plan all along. Your careless consideration has landed you in my trap, and you are helpless, caught within my claws and grasping the situation as your vision begins to blur. 

This is not the kink you were hoping for.

But it is the one that I’ve been seeking.

I fuck you harder. Your limbs flail but the rush of adrenaline and the cocktail of hormones ripping through my body has made me invincible - you have made me invincible, lifting me to a pedestal of awe only to realize that from here, I am the one in control. Your spit lands on my lips as you struggle to make sense of the situation. I taste your desire and your fear in those small, white drops, and I smile even as you claw at the vice of my hand around your throat.

Don’t you get it? I’m in your system. I’ll never let you go, I’ll squeeze every ounce of love and breath from you, and satisfy both our urges. I feel the way your windpipe collapses, the way tendons crack and crunch, and your wet gagging is the the push I need - with my name but a strangled plea on the air, I come, and it is like hellfire in my system. The only thing that soothes the ache and the terrifying rush is the last of your life slipping between my fingers, spilling into your pants, whistling from your lungs: my mercy is your dying wish, but I’m no saint, and you’ve learned your lesson in a crash course of violent sex, and remorse.

I am every man that you see walking the streets at night.

Perhaps you fancy yourself in love with me.

And yet I am nothing like any man you have ever loved before.

 

~end~


End file.
